


Just the Groceries

by cumberbatchcheekbones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, domestic!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbatchcheekbones/pseuds/cumberbatchcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domestic Johnlock fluff. When Sherlock puts off groceries once more, John is forced to teach him some things about general household chores. Great Blendable Pelvis Accident reference, mind-boggling detergent, and an interesting discovery hidden away in a bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Sherlock pulls a Disguise to get out of Chores

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N: This was the first fic I ever did. Ever. Please, constructive criticism is great. Although I did write this a while ago and do feel I've gotten better in general, any help is fantastic help. Big kisses!)  
> (Also, if you'd like to see more comments on this work, my tumblr is one-more-miracle-just-for-me and the fanfiction section has this story on there.)

John was starving. Apparently everyone in London was sick, and his shift at St. Bart’s became two, then three, and all of a sudden he realized he hadn’t eaten in two days. Sherlock had kept him running around London with a particularly spread-out case, so there had been no stops for food.

 

When John arrived home at 221B, he headed immediately to the fridge, ignoring the contemplating consulting detective tucked into the corner of the couch plucking at his violin. He ought to have anticipated a lack of food, but he still looked.

 

“Thumbs, blood left over from the head, that’s it.” John shut the refrigerator door and faced Sherlock. “You go do the shopping this time.” He collapsed into his chair.

 

The plucking stopped. “You always do the shopping. Why am I doing the shopping?”

 

“Exactly. It’s always me. I’ve had a long day, and it wouldn’t kill you to pick up a few things.”

 

Sherlock didn’t like this situation. “If you’re hungry we ought to go to Angelo’s-“

 

“Sherlock. Just go buy the bloody food.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “But I’ve almost cracked this one, if I just stay here a little longer-“

 

“So help me, Sherlock, I will dispose of all your experiments cluttering up the kitchen if you don’t go get the groceries.” Why was Sherlock being so difficult? “You can think and shop at the same time.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock had caught him off guard. “Good.” John picked up the computer and began to access his blog.

 

Sherlock really didn’t want to leave the flat, but he also didn’t want to throw out all the hard work he’d put into his experiments. Grumbling as he exchanged his robe for his coat, he shuffled down the stairs, stopping at Mrs. Hudson’s landing. I’ll just ask her to pick up groceries, Sherlock thought. She wouldn’t mind.

 

He knocked on her door. She opened it a few moments later, hands covered in a light dusting of flour and a powder-covered apron. Baking. Bread, from the looks of it.

 

“Well, Sherlock! I was just making bread.” Knew it. “What is it sweetheart?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. ”Well, I was feeling a bit-” cough “-sick, and John’s asked me to fetch groceries-” cough “-anyway, and I was-” cough “-hoping you’d-“

 

“Of course Sherlock. You get to bed now, don’t want it spreading. What sort of thing should I pick up?”

 

Sherlock blanked. What in earth did John even want him to buy? “Just the usual.” He began to prattle off things he’d seen John eat frequently. “Bread, ham, mayonnaise, tea, milk, jam…” He trailed off, hoping Mrs. Hudson would know what to get. “I’ll pay you back-” cough “-later. Thank you so much.”

 

“Not a problem dearie. You go upstairs and rest now.” She hung the apron up where her coat had been and was off.

 

Sherlock knew she’d do it; Mrs. Hudson was too nice. He couldn’t get back into the apartment without causing trouble with John, so he sat on a landing crouched in a corner out of sight. He returned to the case in his mind.

 

He was so caught up in his work in that little corner of the landing that he didn’t notice when Mrs. Hudson brought the groceries into their apartment. I was supposed to intercept those, he chastised himself.

 

He walked into the flat sheepishly where Mrs. Hudson looked confused and John annoyed.

 

“Thank you for the groceries, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve just surprised me is all.”

 

“Alright then. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Mrs. Hudson disappeared down the stairs.

 

John waited until she was out of earshot. “Sick? Really? You made Mrs. Hudson get the groceries because you didn’t feel like it?”

 

Sherlock tried to keep from looking embarrassed and stood up a little straighter. “You did interrupt me in the middle of important thinking.”

 

John was too clever for this lie. “No. That’s not it; you just have no idea how to do normal chores. Look,” John said as he sat back down in his chair, “I have three jobs. One is at St. Bart’s, the second is following you around with cases, and the third is taking care of you and this flat. And I’d like to be able to sit once in a while and not have to take out trash or get groceries or do laundry. I have to do that for you, but I shouldn’t have to.” John rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Don’t you see? It sounds like I’m talking to an eight year old.”

 

Sherlock did see the stress. He saw it in the occasional flinching of his psychosomatic leg, in the darkening bags under his eyes, in the wrinkles in his clothes from never having time to change. And, Sherlock began to feel guilt. He was unaccustomed to it, and naturally when he was uncomfortable with something, he wanted to close up and ignore it. But, looking at the weary state of his flat mate, he came to a different conclusion. “Okay. I’d need a little instruction first.”

 

John’s eyes widened. “Did I really just her that Sherlock Holmes needs instruction? Oh that’s good.” He stopped when he saw the embarrassment of Sherlock’s face. “We can start in the morning. In the meantime, I’m making tea.”


	2. In which John is Disappointed with the State of his Freshly Cleaned Jumpers

Sherlock hadn’t slept. He was much too close to the end of this case to bother with sleep. Maybe he’d sleep when Lestrade had them in handcuffs.

 

He was standing in front of his great collage of evidence where the mantelpiece had once been when John emerged from upstairs in his pajamas for tea and a bit of breakfast before work.

 

“Did you sleep?” John asked as he began to fill the kettle with water.

 

“You know the answer to that one,” Sherlock responded absentmindedly. “Oh! Of course! Of course he did it!” Sherlock began to take down his collage.

 

“Well, I’ve got work soon, so we should start the… What do we even call it? Operation Domesticate Sherlock?” Sherlock snickered. “You know what I mean. Let’s do laundry today.” John set the kettle to boil and went upstairs. He called midflight, “Grab all your laundry and meet me in the basement.”

 

John arrived in the basement to find Sherlock prowling around the detergents sitting atop the washing machine. “What is so enthralling about soap?”

 

“Oh, please John. There’s so much to learn from this bottle. But, do go on.” Sherlock was prepared to humor John with a lesson in doing laundry. This shouldn’t take more than a minute, he thought.

 

“Alright. First thing you do is separate them into two loads: lights and darks. Otherwise they might bleed and get the whites muddy.” John picked up a jumper from his pile. “Knitted things like these can shrink easily, so don’t put them in hot water.” He looked up from the basket to find Sherlock peering over the ingredients list for the detergent. “Sherlock. Come over here, I have to show you the dials.” Sherlock looked up absentmindedly and followed John to the garishly white “Washer. Dryer. You’ll want to use the normal setting with generally everything. Pour in an appropriate amount of soap for the load. There’s bleach here for stubborn spots. And that’s about it. Hang up the jumpers- For God’s sake, Sherlock, the detergent is not that interesting.”

 

“Sorry. Do go on.”

 

“No, that’s all there is to it. I’m headed to work. I’ve separated my load for you.” John went upstairs to change, saying “See you tonight.”

 

John worried about Sherlock all day. It’s stupid to worry, he chastised. Sherlock is capable of so much; he won’t be able to ruin laundry.

 

John had finally calmed himself down successfully by the time he arrived home. The first thing he noticed was a cup of tea sitting on the table next to his chair. Sherlock had made John tea. Oh dear God, what’s he done? “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock popped his head out of his room.

 

“Sherlock, you’ve made me tea.”

 

“So I have.”

 

“What’s happened that would cause you to fix it with tea?”

 

“The laundry.” Sherlock knew he’d gotten himself in trouble. Too much trouble. “I suppose you want to see the damage.” He guiltily motioned into his room. John followed Sherlock; cautious and slightly frightened of what Sherlock was capable of doing to the laundry.

 

Everything was in order. Both his and Sherlock’s clothes looked clean and folded, nicely in fact. And then John saw his jumpers.

 

“If it’s any consolation, my knits shrunk, too.”

 

“Sherlock,” John whispered as he picked up his cream jumper, now children-sized, “you used the hot water, didn’t you?”

 

Sherlock rattled off the excuses he’d prepared for this moment. “I was busy looking at the soap when you mentioned hot water and bleach, and I didn’t know how to get out that blasted spot, so I assumed hot water would make it get out faster I’m so sorry John I’ll buy you new jumpers-“

 

“Sherlock. This is why you’ve got to listen. You thought you’d catch on quickly did you? Well that’s great, my Christmas sweater is unwearable.” He plopped onto Sherlock’s bed with a sigh, going through the casualties one by one. “I’m holding you to that buying thing, this is ridiculous.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock knew something as silly as shrunken jumpers shouldn’t phase him, but it made him feel awful to see John disappointed in him. He couldn’t quite place why, and it began to drive him insane.

 

John looked up from his clothing, and something stirred inside him. Sherlock was guilty. He was really quite sad, and Sherlock was never particularly sad. John ought to have been furious, but he only responded with, “It’s fine. I think I’ll take that tea, though.”


	3. In Which Chef Watson is the one who Makes a Mess

“I’m hungry.”

 

John looked up from his newspaper. What did he just say? “What did you just say?”

 

“Feeling a bit peckish. Is that weird?”

 

“You never eat.”

 

“John, we both know that’s physically impossible. Angelo’s?”

 

“Sherlock, we always go to Angelo’s. Let’s stay in tonight.”

 

“But there’s food at Angelo’s-“

 

“And there’s food here too. I can teach you to cook simple things, and we won’t always be running around the city to solve crimes and eat at restaurants.”

 

Sherlock was a little hesitant about cooking. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll burn down the kitchen?”

 

“Relax, Sherlock, I’ll be right here to teach you.” John stood up, went into the kitchen, and began to search the fridge for something suitable and easy. Looking past the bag of thumbs in the fridge, he found a spare bit of ground beef. Behind the jars of jam and frozen biotic, John pulled out a jar of tomato sauce. And in the cupboard next to a microscope, a box of spaghetti sat waiting to be eaten. “Looks like we’re making pasta with meat sauce. And Sherlock, do you still need-“

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you haven’t ever heard what I wanted to get rid of.”

 

“If I didn’t need it for experiments anymore, I would have disposed-“

 

“What about your frozen bacteria cultures?” John interrupted as he searched the cupboards for a large pot.

 

“I suppose you could throw those out,” Sherlock admitted. “But everything else I know I need. Now, pasta and meat sauce? Easy.” Sherlock stood for a moment in thought, and then disappeared downstairs. He reappeared just as John was filling a pot with tap water with two aprons in hand. “Here, John. Put this on.”

“Sherlock, who on earth do we need Mrs. Hudson’s aprons to make spaghetti?” Sherlock gave John a look. “Oh yes. Now I remember,” John said as he slipped into one. We don’t want another mess like the Great Blendable Pelvis Accident.

 

He motioned for Sherlock to join him next to the stove. “Two things we’re making: meat sauce and pasta. One big pot of water to boil for the pasta, and a smaller pan to cook the meat and mix with the tomato sauce.”

 

“Sounds easy enough. What do you want me working on, Chef Watson?” he inquired with an embellished wave towards the two pans heating on the stove.

 

“Don’t give me that tone. You’d burn the meat in an instant if you got distracted by god knows what. Defrost the meat in the microwave.”

 

Sherlock opened the microwave to find it covered in a film of dried plant paste. “Perhaps I’ll clean the microwave and then defrost it.”

 

“That’ll do.” John found this was easy, working with Sherlock in a setting where Sherlock wasn’t the expert. He didn’t make a great fuss or put up a fight to following John’s orders. John liked to see Sherlock out of his element, still discovering, slowly understanding. This man was a different creature altogether, John thought as he watched Sherlock go at the plant paste in the microwave with a spatula and a damp rag.

 

Soon, the two bachelors had pasta in boiling water and meat marinating in tomato sauce. Sherlock and John looked at each other, smiling a “We didn’t burn down the kitchen, good day today” smile.

 

“So when do we take the sauce off the stove?”

 

“Whenever we feel like it. It’s probably done.” John stirred the sauce once, nodded, then took the pan off the stove, but not before pouring the entire pan on himself and the floor. Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles as John hurriedly wiped the mess off the floor.

 

“Sherlock, this isn’t that funny.”

 

“Yes it is-“ he cut himself off in another fit of laughter.

 

“At least help me clean this up.” Sherlock joined John on the floor.

 

As he wiped up the tomatoe-y mess next to his flat mate, he murmured, “I’m sure Donovan knows what this is like.” And then even John had to laugh.

 

Dinner was fine, although plain tomato sauce wasn’t as good as meat sauce. The dishes proved to me another matter entirely.

 

“But John, if you’d just stop and let me think for a minute, we could save so much on soap-“

 

“Sherlock, it is not necessary to mathematically calculate exactly how much soap should be used per pan-“

 

“But the savings-“

 

“Good lord, the savings aren’t that enormous for you to spend the time for that. We could be finished with the dishes if you weren’t interrupting me.”

 

Sherlock stopped bothering John. As he dried the pan John had just rinsed, he stared at John’s face, mesmerized by every detail. He shook his head and returned his attention to the kitchen.


	4. In Which Sherlock goes Snooping and Finds some Unexpected Things

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John yelled across the flat. I can’t believe this.

Sherlock came floating to the bathroom in his robe and surgical mask. “Please, John. Don’t ruin this experiment. I’m not done.”

“Sherlock. I NEED to use the loo. It’s a sacred no-experiment zone. You canNOT just take over and splatter blood all over the toilets.”

“I needed to see different patterns of blood in accordance with trajectory and such for this case.”

“Clean this. Now.”

“Just give me five more minutes in here, then I’ll clean up.”

John sighed. “Alright. Five minutes. Oh, and while you’re doing that, I can show you how to clean the loo normally. Scrub the toilets and all.”

Five minutes later, John returned to Sherlock to find him furiously texting. Probably Lestrade. “You got it?”

“Yes.” He slid his phone into his robe pocket and pulled off the surgical mask. “Now, show me how to wield these instruments,” Sherlock said, pointing to the spray bottles and cloths in John’s hands.

“First, you may want to put that robe with your dirty laundry. Otherwise, you’ll just get more blood on the floor.” Sherlock quickly threw the robe across the room, just making it to the confines of his room.

“It’s not that difficult. This bottle is for general cleaning. Spray, wipe, you know. This bottle, you squeeze it in the toilet and scrub with this. This spray bottle’s for the mirrors. Keep this rags separate. Don’t want toilet bacteria on the mirror.”

“Perhaps it cultures differently-“

“Do NOT, Sherlock.” And with that John left the bathroom.

Sherlock did as John had instructed and very quickly became bored. He tried scrubbing the toilet rhymically, he tried making patterns of cleaning liquid on the blood-splattered walls with the spray bottles, none of it worked.

As he was trying to entertain himself while wiping down the red-streaked mirror, he had a strong urge to look through John’s medicine cabinet. A voice inside his head chastised him. John hates it when you do things like that. You owe him privacy. But the child in him retorted, To hell with John. He gave you this boring chore. Sherlock opened the cabinet and stared at its contents.

Advil, Tylenol, aftershave, normal things in front. Tucked away in the corner, Sherlock spied sleeping medicine. The medicine John had used when the nightmares struck. Sherlock took it out and opened the cap. The label said that they were prescribed long ago, before John and Sherlock had even met. If John was to take one each night, assuming he picked up the bottle the day he had the prescription, he had stopped taking them… after three weeks. The rest of the prescription was still in the bottle. Why did he stop taking them? Why did the dreams stop after three weeks? And then he realized.

The date on the bottle. Three weeks later, John was moved into 221B Baker Street. Threes weeks after the bottle was prescribed, John had saved Sherlock’s life from the homicidal cabbie. Did I stop his nightmares? And something rose in Sherlock’s chest, pride, happiness, and… no, it wasn’t. Did he really? He’d never had that feeling before. The foreign feeling confirmed his suspicions. Sherlock quickly shoved the bottle back in the cabinet and shut the door.

Does John have this feeling for me? Sherlock tried to recount memories of John, to look for evidence. And he realized just how blind he’s been. Not just about the obvious signs, dilating pupils, shortness of breath, but the general spark between them. They worked. Sherlock couldn’t describe it objectively, which ought to have frightened him, but nothing about John frightened him. Only… if John were to ever leave…

Sherlock pushed the thought away and left it in the now clean loo. So what’s next? Ah yes…


	5. The Plan

John couldn’t help feeling Sherlock was up to something. One would normally feel that all the time if they’d just met the man, but John knew better and could feel that he was actually planning something.

He snuck round the flat more so than usual. When John showed up, Sherlock was surprised to see him and a little flustered, like he’d been in the middle of something. But John had no idea what that something was. He tried to shrug it off, but in the back of his head, John was always wondering what this was.

One night, about a week after the bloody loo cleanup, John returned from a particularly stressful day at St. Bart’s. Patient after patient had been anything BUT patient as they waited for their appointments. The waiting room was packed, and John’s energy level by the end of the day was very low. All John wanted when he got home was a nice cuppa, some crap telly, and some peace. With this in mind, he was very shocked when he got to 221B.

As he opened the door to his flat, he found Sherlock in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on two plates of pasta with meat sauce. Sherlock was cooking. By himself. And the kitchen hadn’t blown up. In fact, the kitchen was clean of all experiments.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock looked up from the two plates. “You’re home. You’re supposed to come home in fifteen minutes, I haven’t finished.”

“Finished what?”

“This,” he said as he gestured to the table. “Oh! Stay right there!” And just like that Sherlock had left the kitchen for his bedroom. John was left standing utterly confused. Did he do this for me? Why would he do this for me? Why now? And suddenly, Sherlock was back from his bedroom bearing a small parcel. He outstretched it to John, who took it hesitantly.

“What’s this?”

“A gift.” The consulting detective stood expectantly. “Well, open it.”

John shot Sherlock a questioning look and began to tear the poorly wrapped paper. Inside, John found a pile of scarves that appeared to be made out of his shrunken jumpers. I thought I threw them out. He made me scarves out of my jumpers. And John felt something stir in his chest: happiness and… something else. John tried to shake the second feeling, but found it stuck. He realized Sherlock was waiting, so he prepped his voice to speak. “Did you-“

“With some help from Mrs. Hudson. Now you can still have those jumpers.”

John didn’t know what to do about the pushing in his chest, it was prohibiting any real speech. He pushed out “Thank you Sherlock” as an involuntary tear fell out of his eye. He tried to conceal it, but Sherlock saw.

“You do so much for me, John. You put up with… everything that I do.” John began to register what was happening.

Sherlock’s voice wavered as he continued. “You believed in me, even when I left you here alone. You didn’t keep me out when I came back, and I will always owe you for that.” Sherlock steeled himself for his next words, but found them hard to come out. “I… I… I think I l-love you.”

Sherlock braced himself for silence, but was instead greeted by a pair of lips against his. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock became stiff with shock. As he realized that John was not mad or stunned, he pulled John closer and kissed him back, intent on memorizing this man’s lips so that he’d remember them forever.

As Sherlock pulled out of the kiss, he stared into John’s deep blue eyes. ”I was so concerned you’d be afraid of this.”

And John realized he had been afraid. Petrified really. “I was, but only because I didn’t know if you’d feel the same. I- love you, too.” He hugged Sherlock, whispering into his shoulder, “Thank you for saying it first.”

Sherlock whispered back into John’s hair, “Thank you for making me whole.”


End file.
